Curious
by OutIslander
Summary: 'He's a curious one, that Mr Kirkland.' one shot/sort-of character study


_He's a curious one, that Mr Kirkland._

* * *

There's a white stucco terraced house in Hampstead, London, which is something of a curiosity and talking point to the neighbourhood.

Outwardly it looks much like the other elegant Georgian houses in the street but, unlike its neighbours, the house exudes a peculiar air of intrigue. This is mostly due to its eccentric yet rarely seen owner: a serious young man of medium height and slim build sporting a rather daunting pair of eyebrows over world weary green eyes that are very much at odds with his youthful face.

This man, Mr Kirkland (no one knows what his first name is), is most usually seen climbing in and out of the back of a sleek, nondescript yet clearly expensive black car, its windows tinted for privacy, that appears regular as clockwork each day.

Whatever it is Mr Kirkland does he works a hellishly long day and, from the sight of his haggard face and the relieved slump to his shoulders when he arrives home each evening, lugging his briefcase like a millstone, his neighbours do not envy him it in the slightest.

Whatever his business he is always impeccably dressed in smartly pressed (albeit soberly coloured) suits. The few times Mr Kirkland has been seen in something other than a suit he'd been wearing clothing more suited to an old man (sloppy wool cardigans, velvet smoking jackets, Burberry slippers, tweed waistcoats and sweater vests) than a lad in his early twenties (his neighbours have all agreed that, for all his apparent maturity, he cannot physically be any older).

Save for his scruffy blond hair, he always looks neat and well presented, though some might say bordering on _stuffy_. Though the young people in the row view him as some peculiarity, the older generation always remark upon his appearance with approval. _'How nice to see that_ some _young people still make an effort to dress properly.'_ It's perhaps fortunate that they're unaware of Mr Kirkland's real age...

No matter what your opinion of Mr Kirkland it cannot be denied that he is a man of contrasts. He has the perfect, straight backed posture of someone with an aristocratic or militant background with the personality and habits of man three times his age, yet he often swears like a sailor and drinks like a teenage delinquent. On weekends he has been witnessed stumbling back from the local pub after last orders, muttering to himself about 'America' -from the sounds of his long, drunken rants he doesn't much care for the country. Or, weirdly, 'frogs' for that matter.

On even rarer occasions he has been spotted dressed more his age in dark, indecently tight jeans, distressed t-shirts and studded military boots, piercings gleaming in his ears and his hair spiked and dyed shocking colours.

Lord knows what he gets up to on those odd evenings out, but whatever it is he seems to enjoy it, for it's the only time he really smiles; colour is always high in his cheeks, his green eyes vivid bright within their kohl lining.

Despite the ungodly, drunken racket he makes belting out offensive lyrics from various punk songs his neighbours don't have the heart (or the guts, let's be honest) to tell him to pipe down; it's just too nice seeing the uptight, too-serious young man next door truly letting loose for a change.

His neighbours, whose initial attempts to befriend Mr Kirkland have been met with charmingly polite yet aloof responses that invite no further intimacy, are dreadfully curious about the man's private life. Unfortunately for them the walls of his garden are as high as any publicity shy celebrity's and the tall species of shrubs and trees within successfully foil any attempts to peek down and in from upstairs windows.

They can only guess at his lifestyle. His long working hours, expensive wardrobe, chauffeur driven escort to and from his house, coupled with his dour demeanour, suggest a high paid, high stress, discreet job in the government.

As for his social life, it is seemingly non-existent. His only regular visitors are a flirtatious, flamboyantly dressed blond Frenchman who looks like a fashion model and a loud, bespectacled young American. If it weren't for the perpetual presence of the latter's worn, fur collared, brown leather aviator jacket he'd look fresh out of college in his sloppy t-shirts, baggy jeans and sneakers.

It seems the American likes his fast food despite his obviously athletic build, for he _always _turns up on Mr Kirkland's doorstep either slurping on a milkshake or stuffing his face with hamburgers. He will press and hold down the door buzzer with the hand clutching several McDonald's bags, until Mr Kirkland, drawn by the loud, highly intrusive and unceasing noise, finally wrenches the door open with a stream of swear words that would make a pirate blush, his face like a thundercloud and his prominent brows furrowed over an incredibly intimidating green glare.

Not that it deters his visitors in the slightest. They breeze past him regardless, the Frenchman often sneaking in a quick grope and the American grinning ear to ear and talking a mile a minute.

His neighbours often speculate on how exactly these visitors are connected to Mr Kirkland: Friends? Relatives? *Ahem*..._Lovers?_

Whoever they may be to him, he certainly never looks happy to see them, just varying degrees of irritable, harangued, resigned and most times just plain unwelcoming. But apparently this is normal as his guests never bat an eyelid and continue to address him in a friendly, teasing, overly familiar way despite his threats, insults and sharply sarcastic remarks.

The biggest mystery is what goes on _inside_ that house, for the long spells of quiet that suggest an introspective, retiring young man are often shattered by the sound of an electric guitar being played at max amp volume and with a skill that'd make Brian May weep with envy.

And then there are the occasional _incidents_, late at night, of ritualistic chanting in some otherworldly language, accompanied by bright flashes of light through the closed drapes over his windows.

More disturbingly, these incidences occasionally end with what can only be the sound of a small explosion, quickly followed by a window being swung open to allow coloured smoke to billow outside along with Mr Kirkland's equally colourful cursing.

His neighbours aren't quite sure what to make of it, but since Mr Kirkland always appears only a little singed but otherwise unharmed after these episodes they do not call the emergency services and simply put it down to the man perhaps having a singular interest in home chemistry.

_Yet_...it all remains very strange.


End file.
